


it takes a lifetime to die (and no time at all)

by cydonic



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Blow Jobs, Frottage, Groundhog Day, Hurt/Comfort, Life-Affirming Sex, M/M, Time Loop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2015-12-20
Packaged: 2018-05-07 22:58:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5473661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cydonic/pseuds/cydonic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dorian feels each second slip by as though his body were the hourglass, his blood the sand. </p><p>Time magic is not something to be trifled with.</p>
            </blockquote>





	it takes a lifetime to die (and no time at all)

**Author's Note:**

> for the prompt at dragonage-kink.  
> "Where Dorian uses time magic to save Bull and he keeps trying over and over until he gets it right. Or dorian accidentally cast time magic and has to repeat the same day."
> 
> unbeta'd, first foray into adoribull!

Dorian doesn’t have time to think. He watches as Bull swings his axe upward in a mighty arc, turning on his heel to take out another potential attacker on his left. He takes a moment to dislodge his axe from the near-headless bandit, and it is in that moment that he dies.

Well, nearly.

The strike is perfectly aimed to a weak point, and the warrior wielding the blade is close enough to Bull’s height and breadth that Dorian doesn’t doubt he could muster up the force to cleave through flesh and bone.

As the blade pierces Bull’s skin, everything suddenly stops. Dorian’s hands are out, palms up, and the ground falls away from them. Everything around them is dark, and the only figures he can see are Bull and the man who is a second away from ending his life.

“Stop.” Dorian says, and his voice echoes upon itself, like ripples on the surface of water.

Time becomes malleable there. Dorian can approach the pair, frozen, engaged in the dance of combat. He can run his finger along the bloodied silver of the blade. He can press a hand to Bull’s chest, flesh warm but lungs unmoving. Dorian’s hand winds around a wrist, but finds no sign of life there.

He turns his attention to the warrior. He places a hand on his chest, and summons up a basic spell, wary of conflicting with the other magic at play.

The warrior falls backwards and shatters, a thousand pieces falling into darkness.

“Get up.” Something nudges Dorian’s side, garnering an indignant snort.

When his eyes open, it is to sun lighting the canvas above him. Bull is already prepared for the day ahead, eyebrows raised and a smirk on his lips.

Dorian groans and buries his face into his pillow. “Whilst I am loathe to accept the wakeup call, I was having a terrible dream.”

“Oh yeah?” Bull asks. “What was it about?”

Dorian stills, hands clenching and unclenching, before he replies. “Just some Tevinter stuff. Evil magisters and all that.” He is almost too wound up to be casual, but Bull buys it – apparently.

“Well we’ve got a long day of walking ahead of us, so up you get.” With a final, parting nudge, Bull is ducking out the tent flap and stretching in the sunlight.

Dorian groans once more for good measure (and loud enough for Bull to hear and chuckle in response), but he’s otherwise glad to leave the tent and the bad dream behind. 

After a day of exploring and coming up with absolutely _nothing_ , the entire party is rather glad to be on the path home. When a group of bandits appear out of nowhere, the opinions of the group vary: Bull lets out a joyous cry, happy to finally be hitting something; the Inquisitor is happy for something to break up the monotony of the trek; Cassandra sighs, but charges immediately into the fray; and Dorian is terrified.

 _It was just a dream._ He resolutely tells himself, before incinerating the two archers that try to flank him.

Coincidentally, _it was just a dream_ is what Dorian frantically repeats to himself as once more he watches the unknown warrior strike at Bull. Everything freezes, falls apart, and he snaps awake in a cold sweat.

It must have been accompanied by some kind of noise, because Bull stirs beside him, hand clumsily seeking out his own. “What’s going on?” He asks, words slurring into one as his mind awakens.

Dorian blinks a few times to dislodge terrified tears, and swallows his frantic breathing. “Nightmare again.”

Bull hums. “You don’t get those much.”

“Must be my lucky day.” Dorian replies with a shaky laugh.

He doesn’t get back to sleep, and spends the entire day on edge.

Bull comments on it at least a dozen times, and every single one Dorian waves off with an increasingly more agitated dismissal.

When they are predictably jumped by bandits, Dorian’s first response this time is to hunt down that warrior. He is lurking in the shadows, waiting for his time to strike, and Dorian takes great pleasure in turning the man into little more than bone ash.

Seeing that he is no longer a threat, Dorian feels the weight roll off of his shoulders. He turns back to Bull only to spy three arrows lodged in his chest, and an assassin moments away from slitting his throat.

“No!” Dorian yells, as the world pauses.

It’s darkness once more, and he carefully pulls each arrow from Bull’s chest. Though it leaves an open wound, no blood seeps out. Dorian can hear his own pulse pounding in his ears, echoing in the silence, too loud for him to handle.

“They will not take you from me.” Dorian insists, hands briefly cupping Bull’s cheeks.

Bull doesn’t move then, nor does he move as Dorian pushes the assassin away from him and the world goes dark.

A second later, his eyes are open, and it’s morning once more. The sun turns the tent canvas several shades lighter, Bull is awake and preparing his weapon.

“What are we doing today?” Dorian asks, panicked.

Maybe he was hurt – knocked unconscious. Maybe they’re heading back to Skyhold today. Maybe he slept through the whole fight – an enemy spell. Had there been a mage? It was possible.

Bull raises an eyebrow. “We’re off looking for those ruins. That’s the whole reason we’re out here.”

Dorian feels his chest constrict. “When did we get here?” He asks, sitting up on his folded legs and willing his hands to stop shaking. It can’t be the same day – _it can’t_.

“Yesterday – what’s gotten into you, Dorian?” Bull places the axe on the floor, crawling (he can’t very well stand in the largest tent the Inquisition owns, after all) over to where Dorian is curling in on himself. “You look like the blood’s drained from your face – and not to a place more pleasing, either.” Cracking jokes serves as Bull’s response to any situation. Flirt? Crack a joke. Terrified? Crack a joke. Afraid Dorian is crazy? Definitely joke about that.

“No, _no_ , this isn’t right – it can’t be.” Dorian is pleading, but he doesn’t know who – or what – with. “I can’t – I won’t do this again.”

Before he knows it he is out of the tent and in the harsh morning light. He wears only leggings and an undershirt, his usual sleep attire when they’re off freezing to death somewhere and he doesn’t have the luxury of a fire and down-stuffed quilt in his room.

Cassandra says something – Dorian hears _perfect_ and _hair_ but doesn’t stop to process what she means – as he passes by, heading for some destination he has yet to decide.

Wherever it is, it needs to be as far away from Bull as possible.

“Dorian, wait!”

He breaks into a run, taking the most convoluted path possible through the trees. He’s moving up, higher, stumbling on an increasing number of loose rocks as the foliage gives way to the altitude. Dorian’s hands and feet are cut open, one knee bearing a particularly bad scrape from where he lost a few metres in a backwards slide.

No matter which way he goes, he can hear Bull on his tail. At times he calls out, asks Dorian to stop – begs, at one point – and at others he simply follows along, the sounds of his movement giving away his position.  

Dorian knows he can’t keep running all day, but he desperately longs to. If he can keep Bull out here, away from the bandits, he stands a chance. Maybe avoiding the entire conflict will get them out of this alive.

Something catches around his ankle, and sends Dorian sprawling to the ground for the umpteenth time that day. This time he makes no move to get up, to keep running.

Dorian knows Bull is getting closer, so he calls out to him from where he is laying, face down in the dirt. “Stay here with me.”

Bull drops into a crouch at Dorian’s side, arm extended and hovering just out of reach. “What’s happening?”

Dorian’s inhale catches and turns into a sob. He tries to recover decorum, tries to salvage his appearance, but what good would that do now? He’s spent the better part of the morning running away up a hill in the clothes he slept in, why not make it even better by turning into a sobbing mess?

Bull grabs him and gently pulls Dorian up into his lap, holds him firm against his chest. Dorian can hear the rumbling of Bull’s voice, but can’t pick out the words. “Please don’t leave me.” He sobs brokenly into Bull’s chest, gripping at him with desperate, bloody hands.

Bull chuckles, and the sound makes Dorian cry even more. “I’m not going anywhere, Kadan.” He places kisses indiscriminately against Dorian’s scalp.

“You can’t control that.” Dorian eventually manages to reply, turning so his cheek is against Bull’s chest, his heartbeat drowning out all other sounds.

He must fall asleep there, because when Dorian awakens the sun is making its descent beyond the horizon.

Beneath his ear, Bull’s heart beats strong and steady. They’re nowhere _near_ those bandits, so maybe that means Dorian has done it – maybe Bull is safe this time.

He lifts himself up with a hand placed on each of Bull’s shoulders, ready to leave behind this entire, crazy experience.

And that’s when he notices the woman behind them.

Bull is only just stirring, having fallen asleep himself, which explains why he never heard the approaching footsteps. Their attacker has the advantage of height on her side: the momentum she has gained from the downhill run will not be stopped by something so flimsy as a Qunari neck.

No, this woman is going to slice clean through Bull, and probably catch part of Dorian on her way through.

“Don’t!” Dorian cries out, and it happens again.

The blade is a hair from Bull’s neck and his eyes are only half-open.

Dorian’s body has no more tears left, but he still feels his shoulders shake as he presses a kiss to Bull’s unresponsive lips. Then he reaches up over Bull’s shoulder to brush his fingers against the attacker’s hand, and start it all again.

By now, Dorian is resigned to his fate. When he awakens to Bull whistling a chipper tune, he feels nothing but nausea.

Each day it is the same, and Dorian is so drained of emotions that he simply lets it happen now. Yet no matter how many times he watches the same scene unfold, sickeningly accustomed to the imminent death of his lover, Dorian can never keep himself from interfering.

Dorian has lost count of how many times it happens. How many days he spends dreading the end, spiralling into darkness only to wake up and do it again.

The only joy he feels is in seeing Bull alive every morning. Some days Dorian is up first, and gets a few moments to admire Bull asleep before the end begins. Other days, Bull awakens him – with a nudge, a kind word, a kiss. Dorian feigns annoyance, buries his face in his pillow, hides the tears with excuses of laziness.

On one of those mornings, Dorian meets Bull’s smart comment with a fierce, open kiss. The words Bull had on the tip of his tongue are sucked into Dorian’s mouth and left unspoken, replaced instead with noises of pleasure. Bull has a hand fisted in Dorian’s hair when they break to breathe, his eyes hooded.

“Do you think we could…?”

Dorian has never been more thankful for Bull’s willingness to put sex above nearly everything else. Today, he needs this closeness, this intimacy.

Dorian feels like a teenager again, as the pair of them arrange themselves in an artful tangle of limbs. Dorian’s cock is hard and upright, and he presses his body flush against Bull’s so he can use that friction to satisfy him. Bull tilts his head to press sucking kisses along the ridge of Dorian’s collarbone, mindful as ever about his horns. One large hand sneaks down to palm the side of their rubbing erections, and Dorian lets out a low moan against Bull’s ear.

He can feel the larger man shudder at the sound, and Dorian does it again, rolling his hips forward and ending with a sharp flick. Soon the simple contact between them is not enough, and Dorian slides down Bull’s body with more finesse than even he expected.

He takes Bull into his mouth, lips stretched wide around the impressive girth. The hand in his hair returns, fisting tight and tugging – a sure-fire way to have Dorian writhing. Bull leans over Dorian’s body so he can reach his own hand around and under his torso. Each time Dorian lowers his mouth, Bull’s hand tightens, and soon they are both an artless mess of rubbing and sucking and moaning.

Dorian cums first and Bull kisses the moan from his mouth. His hand, slick with Dorian’s cum, makes short work of Bull’s own erection, and soon they’re lying on the bedroll enjoying the post-orgasmic bliss.

It’s a mage, this time, and Dorian is still thinking of the sounds Bull made when the world crumbles again.

When Dorian awakens, he decides it is for the last time. Whatever the cost, the day will end.

He goes through the motions of the day: dress, eat, depart. He walks beside Cassandra most of the way, delighting in the way the Seeker would rather get the job done than chat. Every word exchanged between the Inquisitor and Bull pains Dorian, but he can’t afford to stop and think about that.

On the few encounters they have, Dorian avoids Bull like he’s contagious.

Bull attempts to sit beside him when they break to consume a small meal of dried meat and tough bread, but Dorian simply excuses himself to go fill his waterskin. Dorian ducks out of an enthusiastic shoulder clap, and pretends he doesn’t see Bull go to wrap an arm around him later in the afternoon.

The tension in the party is tangible. Not only has Bull now grown agitated, but so has Cassandra and the Inquisitor. By the time they’re heading back to camp, unable to find the ruins they’d been searching for, the silence is agonising.

Dorian can feel the nerves light along his body as they approach _that place_. He tries to keep his breathing even, but can’t stop it from picking up in time with his frenetic heart.

They’re almost there – mere steps away – when he makes a sudden, lateral movement that places him flush against Bull’s side.

It’s so foolish, Dorian thinks, as he grips Bull’s arm a little too tight. They are already set upon by the group of bandits; he simply doesn’t have time for such childish matters.

But if he doesn’t do this, he won’t be able to live with himself after.

“I love you.” He states, as though it were as plain as the sun rising in the morning. Their eyes lock, and Dorian knows Bull is about to respond, to question, and so he does the one thing he always does-

He releases Bull’s arm, pirouettes, and strikes out at the pair of archers. It doesn’t take long for them to fall, barely able to notch an arrow before their bodies crumple under the sudden onslaught.

Behind him, the battle continues in earnest. Dorian doesn’t turn around. He knows that if he looks, he will surely intervene. Dorian simply does not have the willpower to watch the person he loves being slaughtered, knowing he has the power to prevent it.

Is it so bad, the curse upon him, that he can’t live in this eternal loop? The only person being selfish is him, no matter the outcome: he toys with the fabric of time to keep his lover alive, or he lets Bull die to save his sanity. No matter which way he turns it, the answer is that Dorian cannot resist the call of his own happiness.

Each begins with Dorian making decisions that benefit him and concludes with loss.

Although Dorian hasn’t toyed with time (on this occasion, at least), he feels each second slip by as though his body were the hourglass, his blood the sand. With each beat of his heart, it unfolds: Bull swings up with an almighty cry, turns and nearly beheads an attacker to his left, distracted long enough ( _three heartbeats_ ) for the warrior to gain momentum, to step forward, to lunge and then-

Dorian is face first in the dirt, all the wind pushed violently from his lungs. His staff fell from his grip as he went down, and he grasps for that as eagerly as he does for his breath. Dorian’s head rings from the force of impact, and by the time he has his wits together the heavy presence on his back is gone.

Sluggishly Dorian pulls his body upright, the world still tilting at the corners of his vision.

Bull is at his side in the space of a heartbeat, an unknown one, and his body startles.

Nothing moves for a stretch of time – too long, almost – and Dorian fears he did it without thinking. He can’t see the threat, but it must be there. The time is right, but Bull’s chest is heaving. A line of blood drips down from a jagged cut on Bull’s chest. Dorian’s chest aches for him to exhale, which he does.

“This isn’t right.” Dorian says, eyes focused on Bull, a hand extended towards him – tentative yet hopeful.

Bull drops to his knees, gentle palms cradling Dorian’s cheeks. Bull’s eyes search and find something that brings a curious slant to his eyebrows, before a faint smile crosses his features and smooths the worried look away. “You’re damn straight something isn’t right. What were you doing?” His tone is fond, and he carries on before Dorian can answer. “You had your back to the fight, you’re lucky you didn’t die.”

Dorian lets his staff fall again, this time intentionally, so he has both hands free to curl around Bull’s forearms. His fingers not-so-subtly seek out a pulse point on both wrists. “You’re alive.” He whispers with reverence. “Time is passing.” The two simply do not go together – Dorian can’t make sense of it. The sun still inches towards the horizon. The trees move and sway in the breeze. Cassandra and the Inquisitor are watching them both at a distance.

“You must’ve bumped your head pretty hard.” Bull smiles, although it doesn’t totally reach his eyes. He leans forward, gently placing a kiss on Dorian’s forehead. “Let’s head back to camp.”

Though it goes against every fibre of Dorian’s being, he can’t help the sudden, desperate urge to attach himself completely to Bull’s side. Perhaps it was a concussion – that might explain why his first instinct was not to brush himself off and take himself back to camp under his own willpower, but to crumple into Bull’s chest. The Inner Circle know of their relationship, however public displays of affection are not usually on the cards. Dorian and Bull lean more towards lingering touches and glances rather than cooing and groping each other like horny teenagers (all tent-related trysts aside).

Dorian can hear the placating tone of Bull’s voice against the top of his head, can feel the soothing rub of big, warm palms on his back, smoothing the wrinkles in his coat. “I love you, you know.” Bull says, and Dorian might be imagining the uncertainty in his voice.

There’s a hand in his hair, and perhaps Bull believes he has the perfect excuse of getting the dirt out of it, but Dorian knows how much he likes to mess with it. Not that it would be particularly well-styled after taking a sudden detour into the ground. “I know.” Dorian replies.

They remain entwined as they walk back to camp, and then as they bathe, eat, and sleep.

When Dorian wakes in the morning it is to a new, entirely unremarkable day with Bull at his side.


End file.
